


Ecclesiastes

by theDeadTree



Series: GreedFall Oneshots & Scene Collections [4]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: De Sardet returns to Sérène, and finally confronts his uncle.
Series: GreedFall Oneshots & Scene Collections [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505774
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Ecclesiastes

**Author's Note:**

> Had the idea for this scene and couldn’t not write it. Prince d’Orsay is such a delightfully complicated character for someone we never actually meet; I wanted to experiment with him and how he might react to a De Sardet that has learned the truth.
> 
> I’m aware the sudden switch to first-person is a bit of a departure from tradition, but it just worked a whole lot better this way. Hopefully it’s not too distracting.

The room was cold and empty – but it had been that since well before I ever left. It was as if nothing had changed; there was still the same sparse furniture, the same creaking floorboards, the same muted sunlight coming in through the windows. For so long, I stood there, motionless in the doorway, staring at the empty chair that sat, still, in the middle of the room. The only real difference was the dry, musty air; now completely free of the smell of slowly rotting flesh. Otherwise, there was barely anything to suggest her absence. She could’ve gone out for tea for all I knew.

I swallowed uncomfortably and made my way inside; slowly, jerkily, unable to quite get over the gaping void of her absence.

She was dead, I knew that. I’d known that for months. I knew when I left that I wouldn’t see her again. It shouldn’t have hurt me as much as it did, to see this place again, without her in it. But suddenly, it wasn’t a distant, mildly uncomfortable thought I could ignore. Suddenly, it was reality, a bitter truth that came down without warning, crushing me beneath its weight as I struggled to breathe, my hand flying up to clutch the pendant she’d given me.

My gut clenched as I turned it over in my hand, fingers running over it, feeling the indentations of the carving, and how unmistakably _native_ it was. It was, like so many other things in my life, a connection to a past I hadn’t realised I had, a relic of a life that was taken from me. One last, tragic keepsake from my mother, whoever that was supposed to be.

It all seemed so long ago now.

“It was about a week after your departure.”

I immediately went rigid at the sound of someone else’s voice, freezing in place as Prince d’Orsay slowly crossed the room, his footsteps the only real sound in that moment. My eyes went wide as I glanced up to see him there, standing in front of me, tall and imposing just as always. I felt a small shiver travel up my spine at the mere sight of him, unable to shake the part of myself that was screaming at me to flee, to avoid having the inevitable conversation I knew was coming for just a little while longer.

I hated being here, in this place, with him. Seeing him in the flesh suddenly felt physically painful, now that I knew the true extent of who he was and what he’d done to me. He’d always been a manipulative old bastard, calmly and brilliantly playing people against each other and using constant mind games to get what he wanted. I’d known that. You only had to spend a few minutes with him to know that; to see the sheer callousness with which he approached everything and everyone around him. I’d always known that about him. He never made any attempts to hide that part of himself from me. Perhaps he’d never felt the need. At first, I’d thought his honesty was due to us being family. Now…

Now, I have no idea. Maybe that was a manipulation as well. His way of letting me think I knew him. That I could trust him, in some strange, twisted way. No one expects an honest man to lie. I employed the same tactic myself – dozens of times. That kind of thing was expected in Sérène, and I learned from the best.

Another shiver travelled up my spine at that thought.

I hate that.

I never wanted to be anything like him. And here I am, more like him than ever before, not even related and still taking after him more than Constantin ever did.

He didn’t meet my gaze, too busy staring down at the chair before him, his hand tracing over the wooden armrest. “Six days. I’d hoped she would have more time than that. But in the end, six days was all she was willing to endure.”

I let out a small, shaky exhale and blinked several times, doing whatever I could to fight back the tears that were welling up in my eyes, desperate for him not to see me upset. I wasn’t sure if I succeeded, but when he slowly turned around to face me, he made no mention of it.

“She was granted the closure she desired,” he murmured. “She was able to see you off, as she wanted. After that, there was no point in continuing to cling to life. She let go. Allowed it to take her peacefully.”

Silence filled the room as he watched me carefully, an expression of genuine sorrow and remorse colouring his usually so severe features. And I, meanwhile, remained completely rooted to the spot, unable to do much, if anything at all. I couldn’t move. In that moment, I wasn’t even able to really _breathe._

I wasn’t ready to do this.

Not here.

Not _now._

“My sister died a dignified death,” he continued when he realised that I was beyond words, gently placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “And in the end, that was all I could ask for.”

I shivered at his touch but nodded; a quick, jerky movement that I desperately hoped was enough, all while wishing with every fibre of my being that we could talk about something – _anything_ – else. Suddenly, it was too real, too raw, too painful. I couldn’t be here, I couldn’t think about her, about how she died.

Why do I even _care?_ She wasn’t my mother. She lied to me my entire life, let me think I was someone I wasn’t, couldn’t bring herself to admit-

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on breathing. I can’t do this. The resentment will overwhelm me if I let it.

His hand tensed slightly, gripping my shoulder tightly and abruptly pulling me, without any real warning, into a tight embrace. I gasped a little in surprise as he held me, at a complete loss as to how I was supposed to take the sudden outpouring of affection. He’s not like this. He _never_ used to be like this. This is so completely unlike anything I’ve known from him previously and I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond. He seemed… genuine. Empathetic. Caring. All words I never would’ve associated with him prior to this.

Was this all an act, too? Some elaborate trick he was employing so I would trust him? Pretending to grieve for his sister so we could bond over her death? Part of me was convinced that was the case, but… I remember what it had been like, before. He’d always seemed to genuinely care about her, almost more than anyone else. If it was just an act, it was one he’d been keeping up for at least as long as I could remember. That just didn’t seem likely.

I can’t read him anymore. Suddenly, I had to wonder if I ever could.

“It’s so good to see you, Adélard,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he released me from his grip. “I’m glad you’re well.”

I blinked several times, still at a complete loss. “I- I… uh…”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he pressed, cutting smoothly across my vague and incoherent stammering. “When they told me you were here, I worried. I hope everything is well in New Sérène?”

“E-everything is fine,” I stammered uselessly, not entirely sure what I was saying, or why I was saying it. “Thank you.”

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”

I bit my lip, pulling back a step or two in some vain effort to put a little more distance between us. I couldn’t stand it, being here, in this room, with _him,_ knowing who and what he was, what he’d done, all with the reality of Constantin’s death hanging over me. It was too much, too quickly.

 _Just get it over with,_ I told myself frantically. _Just say what you need to say and get out._

I told myself that over and over again, a thousand times, getting angrier at myself the longer I stood there, unable to move, my voice dying in my throat as I struggled to find the words.

I’m supposed to be a diplomat – this is supposed to be my _job._ It shouldn’t be this hard.

And yet.

“Constantin is dead.”

It all came out in an awkward rush, mostly due to my intense desire to get the conversation over with as soon as humanly possible. My eyes grew wide with shock as I realised just what had happened, and I stepped back even further, part of me terrified he would fly into a violent rage and lash out at me.

Instead, Prince d’Orsay barely reacted.

“Yes,” he said with a small nod, his voice flat and completely devoid of any actual emotion. “I’m aware.”

I pulled back a little further, put off by the distinct lack of grief in his tone – such a far cry from just a few minutes ago. “I- I’m sorry?”

He didn’t move, his gaze never wavering from my face. “Sir de Courcillon informed me in a letter that Constantin had become afflicted with the malichor. That was some months ago now, and given the time it takes to travel to and from the island… I assumed he had died in that time. As much as I appreciate the gesture, you needn’t come all the way back to Sérène simply to inform me.”

I blinked.

I wasn’t able to do much more than that; too shocked at the complete nonchalance of his reaction. Though I don’t know what I had expected, exactly. Something more, I suppose. _Anything._ Anger. Denial. Blame. That was my first mistake, really. Expecting him to act like a father, when he’d never been anything of the sort when Constantin was alive.

My mouth immediately ran dry, realising that I was going to have to explain everything that had happened, all the things Constantin did, and everything I’d done in response. I was going to have to tell him everything, and I had no idea what his reaction to it would be. And yet I felt resigned, knowing that whatever he did to me, it wouldn’t be even close to what I deserved.

“Even still, there were some…” I trailed off as I tried to figure out how to phrase myself, “ah, _extenuating circumstances_ you should probably be made aware of.”

His eyebrow rose with clear interest at that. “Indeed? Then please, enlighten me.”

I inhaled sharply. Where to even _begin?_

“Constantin did develop the malichor,” I began, wincing at just how distant and clinical I was sounding, like I hadn’t been there, like I hadn’t witnessed it all firsthand. “And it… affected him. Deeply. He was frightened of dying, and grew desperate as a result.”

Prince d’Orsay leaned back slightly, clasping his hands together and letting out a mildly concerned hum, apparently recognising the direction in which I was headed.

I swallowed uncomfortably. “I found a doneigad who agreed to help treat him, and attempt to alleviate his symptoms while I-”

“Pardon? You found a _what?_ _”_

I blinked in surprise, having completely forgotten that he had no reason to know what on earth I meant by _doneigad._ “One of the native mages. A… a shaman, if you will.”

“Was that wise?”

I tensed.

“Catasach was willing to help, and neither Constantin nor I were in a position to refuse him,” I reasoned, not bothering to point out that I’d deliberately sought out his aid. “In- in any case, there’s a ritual that the natives perform, a way of bonding themselves to the land, which allows them to draw power from the island itself. I don’t fully understand the mechanics of it, but Catasach believed it would save Constantin’s life.”

“And you just _let_ this happen?” The irritation and disbelief in his voice was evident, and I immediately shrank back.

He expected better of me, I knew it. He always had. I was the responsible one after all, Constantin’s one voice of reason. I was supposed to keep him from making impulsive and destructive choices. I should’ve been there, and reasoned with him, steered him away from this.

It wasn’t anything I hadn’t already told myself a thousand times.

“It wasn’t my decision,” I insisted feebly, not sure how else to defend myself. “Constantin agreed to it while I was on business elsewhere. I didn’t find out what had happened until afterward.”

I could see the prince’s lip curl at this point.

 _“Of course_ Constantin would do this,” he hissed, mostly to himself. “Put his life in the hands of unknown magic? What could go _wrong?_ _”_

That wasn’t worth a reply. Wasn’t worth the energy I’d have to spend arguing the point. So I simply let it go and continued.

“Ultimately, the ritual was successful, but… Constantin grew addicted to the power it gave him. He- …he lost his mind; attacked both Hikmet and San-Matheus, and tried to seize control of the entire island. In the end, I-”

I cut off, unable to say anything more. My voice caught in my throat and immediately died. Not that it mattered, since the prince’s look of mild concern had morphed into something closer to outright horror.

“He attacked colonies of the Bridge Alliance and Thélème.”

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “He- he did, yes. And the natives as well.”

“Of _all_ the selfish, _irresponsible-_ _”_ he snarled, only to immediately cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to breathe. “A cure at the cost of complete insanity is hardly a _cure,_ Adélard.”

“I never meant it as one,” I said quietly, hoping to postpone that conversation for another time.

With everything going on, everything that was happening at the time, I’d almost completely forgotten about searching for a cure. It all just became one mad rush to stop Constantin from destroying absolutely everything. Everything else stopped mattering to me at that point.

He nodded, though also let out an exasperated sigh. “Apologies. Go on.”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. “I was- …I ultimately had to take action against him. He- he died by my hand.”

My heart thumped in my chest as I stood there, part of me wishing nothing more than to simply die on the spot as I made that confession. I hadn’t said anything about it; hadn’t spoken to anyone, hadn’t confronted the reality of my actions at all, since it happened.

It hadn’t seemed entirely real until now.

But Constantin _was_ dead. He was dead, and in the end, I’d put him down like a rabid animal. My cousin. My brother. My best friend. Possibly the closest friend I’d ever had.

How do I deal with that? Where do I even begin with something like that?

How long has it been? All the days blurred into each other. Every second since seemed to last forever, and yet it feels like just yesterday I was talking to Constantin – about anything and everything, because that was what we always did. But it’s been weeks. Months, even. An entirely different lifetime.

“We need to deal with this,” Prince d’Orsay sighed after what felt like a complete eternity, startling me slightly as he eased himself down into the chair – the single, lone chair she’d once spent so much time in – rolling his shoulders back in a visible effort to force himself to relax. “Organise reparations for our allies; make sure they’re aware that Constantin acted of his own accord. It will cost us, but we can recover. His actions must be condemned, or they may feel the need to enforce an embargo on us. Such a thing would destroy the Congregation.”

For a moment or two, I simply stood there in silence, watching him carefully and waiting, waiting for him to add something, to ask about Constantin’s remains, or the details of his death. _Something._ Instead, he simply sat there, two fingers pressed against his temple in what seemed like an attempt to ward off a headache, not uttering a single word.

Finally, after what felt like an absolute, utterly _agonising_ eternity, I found I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“That’s _it?_ _”_

“I’ve displeased you,” he noted dryly, his eyes – that same old hard, unrelenting gaze that had haunted my entire childhood – flicking up to meet mine.

“Your son is _dead,_ _”_ I pointed out harshly. “And all you’re concerned about is the economic welfare of the Congregation?”

“What else would you have me do?” he demanded. “Constantin was reckless, as _always._ Now we must pay the price of his idiocy; it’s all I can do to keep his actions from completely destroying us.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I insisted, my hands balling up into tight fists.

 _“Wasn’t_ it?”

I gritted my teeth furiously. “Constantin was caught up in circumstances beyond his control.”

“And lost his mind, due to a ritual _he agreed to,_ _”_ came the reply. “Put your emotional attachments aside for one _minute_ and think about this.”

 _“Emotional attachments?”_ I repeated, outraged, starting towards him. “Your son was murdered – _murdered!_ And you don’t even _care!_ _”_

For the first time in what seemed like a sheer eternity, he glanced up, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “Are you _asking_ me to punish you?”

I stopped dead in my tracks, suddenly unable to bring myself to move as I realised what the answer to that question really was.

I just want people to stop telling me that it was good, that I did the right thing. I can’t hear people tell me that it was a mercy. I just want someone to be angry, to want me to suffer, to achieve _some_ form of justice. Constantin deserved that much. Instead, everyone seems content to just let it go, pretend it never happened. And even if it _did_ happen, that Constantin deserved to die.

“…maybe,” I murmured, hating myself as my voice cracked.

He exhaled loudly and shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Are you even _listening_ to me?!”

“Yes, and what I am _hearing_ is a young man stricken with grief,” he said dryly. “You needed to make a decision for the good of the Congregation. And you _made_ it, despite the personal cost. You ought to be _commended,_ not condemned. And in any case, I’d really rather avoid the scandal. It seems we are rife with them these days.”

I stared at him wordlessly, unable to believe what I was hearing. I just confessed to _killing_ his _son_ and he’s _praising_ me for it? Why does that even _surprise_ me? Why do I keep expecting more than that? When has he ever given the impression he was more than that? That his own reputation wasn’t his one and only concern in life?

“Do you even care?” I asked quietly, furiously blinking tears away. “Did you _ever_ care?”

“Adélard,” he called my name carefully, reaching out in an effort to comfort me, “I know you’re upset-”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know _nothing_ about me,” I snarled, moving far out of his reach. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted from me. Don’t pretend as though I matter to you now.”

His brow creased as he leaned back in the chair. “What on _earth_ are you talking about?”

I gritted my teeth. “Did you _really_ think you could send me to the island without me finding out?”

“Finding out _what,_ Adélard?” he asked a little impatiently.

“The Congregation attempted to colonise Tír Fradí in the past,” I said, not bothering to hide the aggression in my voice as his brow creased. “Did you think I wouldn’t look into it? That I wouldn’t figure to talk to the Nauts about it? Did you _honestly_ think no one would tell me, or that I wouldn’t put two and two together?!”

His lips pursed into a thin line. “Cabral told you.”

 _“Yes,_ Cabral told me!”

“Adélard-”

“You _lied_ to me!” I all but shouted at him, my chest heaving as I lost what little remained of my composure. “You let me think I was- …that you were my… that _Constantin-_ _”_

I broke down, my voice dying in my throat as I staggered backwards, reaching out at the wall for support. A terrible weight pooled in my chest and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Everything was a struggle. Tears welled up in my eyes and I no longer had the energy to fight them. And he just sat there, watching me warily, like he used to when I was still just a child. Like I was nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum to him.

And then, his face softened, and just for a moment, I thought he was going to apologise to me, for everything he did, everything he ever put me through. For one fleeting, brilliant moment, I was still under the impression that he cared even one iota about me.

Foolish.

“You were going to be taken by the Nauts,” he told me smoothly, not reacting as I glared at him with all the hate and venom I was capable of. “I took you in as a mercy.”

 _“Don’t_ pretend it was out of concern for _me,_ _”_ I snarled back at him like a wounded animal. “You were hoping to use my heritage to your advantage, and secure your own power on the island. Am I wrong?”

He leaned forwards, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling sharply. _“Adélard…”_

“Am I _wrong,_ uncle?!”

There was a long, terrible pause as I waited and he hesitated – or as close as he ever got to hesitating, anyway.

“What of it?” he asked finally, his voice low and blunt. “This is how politics work – you _know_ that. Can you honestly say you’re surprised?”

“You used me,” I snarled with all the hostility I could summon in that moment. “My entire life, you _used_ me! And for _what?_ A way to manipulate the natives? Is that all I am to you? Was I _ever_ anything other than that?”

“You were _always_ going to pursue a career in diplomacy,” he reminded me, his voice indifferent, just as it always was. “That was always the plan, and you _knew_ it. You knew for _years._ I can’t see why the expectation becoming a reality surprises you.”

“That isn’t the _point!_ _”_ I shouted, so loudly that for a moment, I thought my throat might tear. “You _kidnapped_ me!”

The accusation was met with dead silence, other than my frantic, ragged breaths as I fought to maintain my composure. Suddenly, it all came to the forefront, all the pain, confusion, and grief, the complete loss of identity, all the emotions I’d spent months trying to bury, all part of a terrible storm of emotion that had me in its grip and refused to let go. I couldn’t ignore it, as I felt what little control I still had slip from my grasp. All I wanted to do was yell, and scream, to lash out at the world and blame everyone around me for everything wrong in my life.

Meanwhile, Prince d’Orsay didn’t move. He went almost completely still, something I knew he only did when he was truly enraged.

 _Good,_ I thought viciously. Maybe then he’d understand even a modicum of what he’s done to me.

“What I did,” he began icily, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his seat in anger, “was give you a _life._ _”_

“I _had_ a life!” I just about screamed at him. “One you had _no right_ to take from me!”

“As _what?_ _”_ he snapped back. “A _Naut?_ You can’t _possibly_ think you would have been _better off_ there.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make!”

“It was _always_ my decision to make,” he argued. “The woman was my property, and so were you. The Nauts overreached.”

A shiver travelled up my spine the instant the words were out of his mouth. _“Property?”_

Did he just-

“Had I not given the order, you never would’ve been born on that ship in the first place,” he pointed out, completely ignoring my aghast expression. “You would have grown up an island savage, and never known any different. The Nauts had _no_ claim on you. They knew it then, and they know it now.”

“Did you just call me your _property?_ _”_

“Why do you _think_ Cabral told you?” he asked, still ignoring me. “You think she _cares_ about you? Cares about the _truth?_ Don’t be foolish. She’s bitter, along with the rest of her guild, because they didn’t get their way all those years ago. And so she has done her best to tear our family apart as recompense.”

 _“Family?”_ I repeated incredulously, letting out a shout of bitter, hysterical laughter. _“That’s_ what you think we are? You ignored Constantin. You _stole_ me. We’re not a _family._ We never have been.”

He let out a quiet groan, and began to furiously massage his temples, clearly tired of this conversation, and me. “I understand you’re upset, but what’s done is done. You’re still my nephew, and that won’t change.”

“I’m not your nephew,” I spat back at him. _“Constantin_ was the only person in Sérène who didn’t lie to me on a daily basis. He was the only _real_ family I had.”

Prince d’Orsay didn’t flinch. He barely reacted at all. “And yet, he died by your hand. It evidently didn’t mean that much to you.”

His words were like a punch to the gut.

I reeled back, eyes wide as my chest constricted and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I saw his lips curve into a smirk at my reaction, pleased to know he’d gotten to me, that he’d won this for now. Worst of all, was the fact that he was right, and I knew it. There was nothing I could do to escape that.

He let out a long, loud sigh and slowly pushed himself back up to his feet, walking over to me and placing a hand on my shoulder once more. Suddenly, it felt like the heaviest thing in the world.

“Now,” he said, “if you’re _quite_ finished with your hysterics, I have work to do. We can discuss your exploits over supper, once you've taken some time to calm down. Understood?”

I shivered and remained silent, unable to do much else in that moment.

His grip tightened uncomfortably. _“Understood,_ Adélard?”

I cast my gaze down, exhaling in defeat. “…understood, uncle.”


End file.
